The Domestic Anti-Diva

This week I got lots of cute construction paper cards, a couple of plaster-of-Paris handprints, and some notes from Melancholy telling me how much she loves me. Aww…. Today, not so much. Lots of whining from the kids. I put the chicken in to marinate for dinner (hubby is grilling, since I told him that’s what’s on the menu for the day). I’ve cleaned the kitchen including mopping the floor. I still need to put away some laundry and clean the bathroom. Yippee.

Hubby is a wonderful guy, which I think I’ve mentioned before. He feeds the kids their breakfast every day, cooks dinner frequently, showers me with affection and just generally is the best hubby and daddy ever. But. Holidays like mother’s day just seem to paralyze him. I suspected that he hadn’t planned anything about a week ago. It was confirmed on Thursday night when I mentioned something about it to the kids. He just moaned and said, “Oh…. mother’s day… I’m already defeated.” Just fills you with the joy of anticipation, doesn’t it? Last night he had to run out to get milk after the kids were in bed. This morning he presented me with a mother’s day card… in Spanish. I don’t speak Spanish. But that’s all that was left at Walgreens at 8:00 pm on mother’s day eve.

See, here’s the thing. I don’t really care that much about cards or presents. Even though my primary “love language” is receiving gifts, I’ve learned that it’s not a language he’s fluent in. And generally speaking, that’s okay. I know plenty of guys who shower their wives with cards, flowers and gifts at every holiday, and yet are either absent or uninvolved in the nitty-gritty, day to day work of running a family. I am so fortunate, blessed even, to have a husband who knows what’s important. So I’ve learned to listen in the language he speaks so well, “acts of service.” And he speaks abundantly in that language.

But you know, once in a while, it would be nice to know that he was thinking about the fact that gifts do mean something to me. No, that’s not quite right. It’s not the gift, it’s the thought. Cliché but true. One of the best gifts he’s ever given me is the promise to fix something of mine that’s broken, something I dearly love. It doesn’t even matter that it’s not finished yet. Knowing that he thought about it and figured out what would mean something to me–that’s what I’m after. Not him sweating it out because there’s another holiday coming up, and, “Oh no, I’d better do something so she doesn’t get mad,” but thinking, “What unexpected thing could I do or get for her that would show her I was thinking of her, that I know what she would value?” Not thinking about not screwing up. Not worrying that I’m going to be ticked off or disappointed, and being paralyzed by that. Not just running to the store at the last possible minute and picking up whatever he thinks will pacify me.

He told me yesterday that he thought that mother’s day was next weekend, and that’s why he hadn’t done anything. But seriously. Putting aside all the advertisements that have been blanketing the newspapers and everything else for the past two or three weeks, and the fact that I asked him to mail cards to our mothers earlier this week, let’s suppose mother’s day really wasn’t until the 18th. Here it is a week before and he hasn’t done or planned anything. So how was it really going to turn out any differently a week from now?

It really wouldn’t take much. I’m not looking for gold or diamonds, or even a new computer. Just a little thought.

Post script, a couple of hours later: I’m over my little pity-party now, and ready to get back to planet reality. He really is the best guy in the world. <3

…to be a former (metro) Detroiter.

Finally. I think I am adequately medicated. Or at least close to it.

I have two conditions that require ongoing medication: an autoimmune thyroid disorder called Hashimoto’s, and depression. To make things more interesting, the thyroid disorder can cause depression and can also make antidepressants not work so well. How’s that for fun?

I’ve been feeling like total crap for, oh, I’d say… YEARS. The last six months to year have been especially bad and getting worse all the time. Depressed, tired, stupid… oh yes, I forgot to mention, Hashimoto’s can also make you stupid. It’s generally called brain fog (by those who have it) and it feels kind of like someone took out my brain and replaced it with oatmeal. Of course, depression can have the same kind of symptoms. So figuring out which part of me is out-of-whack can be quite a challenge. In the past, doctors have tried changing my antidepressants when things have gotten bad, but it generally didn’t help much.

But we’ve finally made some headway. Almost a year ago, one of my doctors found some lumps in my thyroid. A few tests showed that they’re probably nothing (just another fun side effect of Hashimoto’s), but got me seeing an endocrinologist for the first time in years. And they’ve been nudging my thyroid meds up for over six months now, to no effect… until the last nudge. Finally, some relief!

I no longer feel the need to sleep over nine hours each and every night. I’m not exploding at my kids nearly as often as I used to. And, joy of joys, my brain is functioning! I can actually concentrate on a task for more than 15 minutes. I am able to keep my kitchen counters cleared off and things put away (not that I always do, but I had become pretty much incapable of it before). There are still ups and downs, but my bad days now are like my good days were before, and my good days now are like A NORMAL PERSON.

Since I’m still having some bad days, I’m really hoping that my doctor will nudge those meds up a little more the next time I go in. That’s in a couple of weeks. But in the meantime I’m just rejoicing in feeling human.

I totally and completely lost it with my kids a while ago. My throat still hurts from screaming.

Babyface and Melancholy share a room. They, the oldest & youngest, have been together for several years. WildChild has always been very… well, wild at night. She lays in her bed and talks, sings and plays until she passes out.

We’ve been having problems with Melancholy waking up Babyface early in the morning. Like, before 6 a.m. early. Babyface can barely function on a good, full night’s sleep. She really still needs to nap every day, but preschool makes that impossible. To make things worse, Melancholy has also been keeping Babyface up at night for the past several nights. Sometimes Babyface keeps herself up, but the last few nights especially it’s been Melancholy’s doing. She’s in the top bunk, so if she decides she needs or wants something she makes Babyface do the dirty work for her.

It all came to a head today. Babyface is so tired she can barely function. So I decided it was time to try switching things up–Melancholy and WildChild would trade beds. No big deal, or so I thought. But Babyface fell apart because she didn’t want to sleep in her old bed when her sisters were in a new bed.

Hubby then had to leave. I’m on my own now.

Okay… Babyface and WildChild can take turns sleeping in Melancholy’s top bunk. No go. They both started screaming that they didn’t want to take turns. I tried everything I could think of. Nothing would console them.

Finally, I lost it. I screamed at one and all. No one will switch beds–everyone back to your old bed. NOW. I don’t care that it’s only 6:40. You’re all going to bed. NOW.

And they did.

But now I’m left feeling like a total heel. Why do I scream at them like that? I just couldn’t take the whining anymore. But still, I’m supposed to be the mom. I’m a grown-up. I should be able to control myself.

Maybe we’ll try again tomorrow night.

BabyFace has a favorite doll which she calls (creatively) Baby. This morning she told me that Baby is sick. She has a fever that says 25 pounds.

That’s quite a fever.

I just watched “Mary Poppins” with my kids. I haven’t seen that movie in eons, I think not since I was a kid myself. Watching it, I had a startling realization.

I am George Banks.

Or, at least in my twisted ideal world, I would be.

No, I don’t go off to work at the office every day. And my house is not run with the precision of an early 20th century British bank. But when I watched Mary Poppins, I realized that what Mr. Banks idealizes is what I often idealize as well. Children who are perfectly behaved at all times. Seen and not heard. A house run with precision, not a thing out of place or time.

Tradition, discipline, and rules must be the tools
Without them - disorder! Chaos!
Moral disintegration!
In short, we have a ghastly mess!

I completely agree with all of that! And yet, like George, I sometimes miss the bigger picture. That kids need time to be kids. And most of all, kids need time to be kids with their parents.

I feel so conflicted. I want my kids to be responsible, obedient and respectful. I want them to save their tuppence, not always blow it on the bird lady. But I also want them to be compassionate kids who also know how and when to have fun. I want them to get dirty and dance on the rooftops (okay, not literally).

But it’s easy to go out in search of adventures like Mary Poppins when you can clean up the nursery with nothing more than a song and a snap of your fingers. It’s easy to go fly a kite with your kids when you’ve got a household staff to take care of cooking, cleaning, laundry and other drudgery.

So what’s a mom to do? Where is the balance?

Remember this one?

My sister and I had this when we were kids. I remember the two of us spending many hours watching the parts fly. We’d pull the cord as hard as we could and send the cars plowing into walls, Barbies, furniture, dolls, the flat side of the ramps they came with, anything we could. POP! The wreckage! The bits of plastic all over the place! The fun!

I guess I subconsciously wanted to relive that experience a few weeks ago. A momentary distraction (a car in the oncoming lane pulling off to the side of the road–what the **** was she doing, anyway?) and concomitant momentary lapse of attention to the road left me plowing into the back of the minivan that had stopped in front of me. Oops.

The sound reminded me of my old smash-up derby. POP! The wreckage! The bits of plastic all over the place! The… oh wait. It wasn’t fun. Though I did have nice smoke effects from the airbags, and pretty green radiator fluid spilling all over the road. I had plenty of time to appreciate the sight, since it took OVER AN HOUR for the state highway patrol to get there. I hit hard enough to knock the car in front of me into the car in front of them. But the other two cars didn’t appear to be too seriously damaged, and the people in them (one in each) said they weren’t hurt.

The end result of the accident (so far):

• One totaled 2003 domestic minivan (mine). Good riddance. We’d been riddled with buyer’s remorse since getting it less than a year ago. It smelled bad from the day we got it, and had started showing signs of impending large repair bills.

• One new 1999 import minivan. Despite it being several years older and having nearly 50% more miles on it than our old minivan, it seems to be a far better vehicle. Bonus: it’s the same manufacturer as my favorite car of all time, so the steering wheel and controls give me warm fuzzies.

• One ticket for “driving without due care.” $118 and 4 points. There goes my 23-year pristine driving record.

• Four hours of traffic school, to do away with the points. Technically, they say it also reduces your fine. Yeah, sure. My fine was reduced by about $15, I think. But then add on the cost of the class, plus the cost to file the certificate with the court to show I completed the class, and the so-called reduction is gone. It’s still worthwhile, though–my insurance rates won’t go up. I’m doing an online class that’s boring as all get-out. I should really be doing that now instead of writing this.

• One letter from an attorney representing the person in the car in front of me, who is seeking compensation for her “injuries.” Oh joy. I am so thankful for our insurance company, which is handling everything and says it shouldn’t be any big deal.

Moral of the story: keep your eyes on the road, kids!

Good questions. Metaphysical, and yet practical.

Let’s see, let’s start with the first question: who am I? I’m not going to tell you in a whole lot of detail. What I will tell you is that I’m a wife (been married almost two decades) and a mom (of three girls), a conservative, a musician, a Christian, an introvert. My hubby works in Christian ministry; therefore, by association, I do too.

Now the second question: why is this blog here? Because I want a place where I can say what I want–to God, to anyone, or to no one at all. I want a place to vent, to lament, to tell stupid stories about myself, my hubby or my kids, or just to ponder. Whether anyone besides me ever sees a word of this is irrelevant.

Why “The Anti-Diva?” Because that’s how I think of myself. I wanted to be a Domestic Diva, but it doesn’t seem to be in the cards. I keep trying, though. Kind of. Ah, who am I kidding? I just get by.